


The Rehabilitation of Natasha Romanoff

by GirlwhoLived



Series: The Spider's Web [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Companion Piece, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Her backstory is dark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Natasha is still a bamf, Natasha needs a friend, PTSD, Partnership, Red Room, Rehabilitation, Rogue Agent, SHIELD, Trust Issues, Updates Will Be Slow, Winter Soldier mentioned, follows movie universe, hearing impaired character, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-11 21:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11723067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlwhoLived/pseuds/GirlwhoLived
Summary: How SHIELD agent Clint Barton captured and brought in the rogue assassin Black Widow. Told from both characters point of view.Basically, Natasha is broken and Clint is amazing.This is a companion piece/prequel to 'White Flag' but can be read by itself.





	1. India

[](http://imgur.com/hJz21ub)

 

Despite what people believed, it had not been a split second decision to recruit Natasha Romanoff for SHIELD. Clint had studied her for months. She was ruthless and calculating: a grifter, a spy, an assassin -- she was _the_ Femme Fatale. There was nothing the Black Widow could not do, and no situation she did not control.

The woman was nearly impossible to track -- and he was very good at his job. He would follow her to a city only to have her disappear a day later. Clint couldn’t even be sure if there was a reason behind the globetrotting or if it really was random. But he had watched her take out men and women with a seemingly endless amount of skills.

But Clint also saw the cracks in her armor. Every once and awhile she would slip-- only for a millisecond -- but she slipped, nonetheless. And so when it came down to it, he could not pull the trigger.

The first sign was obvious, at least to him. Romanoff had gone AWOL.

The organization that had created her was now hunting her down. Once the deadliest weapon wielded by Russia, she was now their number one target. But they had done too good a job, and she easily stayed out of their grasp. A few agencies had even tried to recruit her, but that had not gone over well. The message was clear; she wanted to be left alone.

And when the Black Widow disappeared there were no clues, no sightings, and no evidence that she had ever existed at all.

But a rogue agent was dangerous to the whole intelligence community. And so a White Flag agreement had been announced. Enemies, allies -- those titles were put aside. Every agency in the world had a new top priority: take out the Black Widow. And Fury had sent him.

There was almost nothing to go on. Officially she had been an agent of the KGB until the fall of the Soviet regime -- but even that could not be verified. The program that trained her was shrouded in mystery. And it could go silent for years, just long enough for people to relax and forget. And then powerful people would start dying.

The program dated back to the Cold War, and was unusual because it only took women. Seventy years ago a female assassin was such a ridiculous idea no one had taken it seriously. But then the Black Widows appeared and the message was clear. The Soviet Union was no longer going to be ignored.

The Nazi regime had proven that, given the right situation, any man could become a monster.  But with the Black Widows the Soviet’s had created soldiers who made killing into an art form. The women who came out were deadly, and more often than not, insane. Even in its earliest days, SHIELD had been one of the few agencies to take the threat seriously.

Clint had not wanted to believe it, but SHIELD and other major organizations all painted the same picture. This program had taken this woman and broken her so badly she was nothing but a deadly automaton. And now she had gone rogue. Therefore Natasha Romanoff needed to be taken out.And so here he was, on a rooftop in India, sweating his balls off.

Wiping his brow, Clint rubbed away the sweat that had gathered under his sunglasses. It was another hot day. Not that summer in India was going to be anything else. But the important thing was Clint had finally caught up to the Black Widow. He had lost her in Vienna, only for her to turn up in southern India 12 hours later.

That had been over a week ago. This was the longest time she had spent in one place and Clint saw it as another crack in her armor. Therefore had not engaged. And now, it was about to pay off.

Following her in the scope, Clint relaxed his hold on the trigger. She was about to make her move.

The Black Widow had tracked the man from the train station -- and despite many obvious places to take him down, she had waited. Pushing through the crowded bazaar, the Black Widow easily made her way behind him. In the afternoon crowd she was practically invisible. With a thin scarf over dyed hair, and her skin dark from the sun, she hardly looked out of place. She certainly did not look like an escaped Russian spy.

Holding his breath, Clint watched her strike. But wait...had she? The man stumbled, but stayed conscious, turning in anger.

She had tazed him, and not very well. The man instantly spotted her, and dragged her out of the crowd, face red in anger. Clint was fascinated: what was her play?

He shoved her into an alley, not trying to be subtle. But she was dressed as a street kid, and he looked like a western tourist -- no one glanced their way.

The man threw her to the ground, reaching for her in a way that made made Clint tense. She struggled in his grip like any other terrified young girl. It was hard to watch, but something told him to wait. Everything the Widow did was planned.

The man tore her clothing, holding her down and she screamed at him, but did not strike back. Instead she continued to struggle, the man hitting her in response, leaving her coughing and bloody. Clint hesitated, finger on the trigger, the man’s head in his sight. What was she doing? Why was she continuing with this act?

He had pushed her skirts up her legs when the Widow finally acted. There was a glint of metal, and the man shouted in pain. She had a knife.

But she did not hold the upperhand for long, attacking without any sort of precision or skill. Clint went cold: this could not possibly be the Widow. This was not a woman trained in combat. No, he was watching a street kid fight for her life.

The girl managed to stab him in the leg, and they both seemed surprised. It wasn’t even a proper blade -- it was a kitchen knife. But it was enough. The girl -- good god, it was just a girl -- continued slashing, fighting to get away. Swearing, Clint adjusted the scope, unable to keep them in sight.

And then it was over.

The girl went pale, scrambling to get away from the body that covered her.

This wasn’t the Black Widow. It couldn’t be. No one with proper training stabbed an artery. Hell, grunts in the army knew that was a bad idea. The girl collapsed against the wall, dropping the knife. Clint could see her hands shaking, her body convulsing with sobs.

Sick to his stomach, Hawkeye steadied the weapon in his hands. He had let that happen. He had watched it happen. For minutes she sat there and Clint silently yelling at her to move, run! Get away from there! But she was in shock.

The girl was sobbing now, pulling her clothes together as best she could. When she finally stumbled to her feet, it was only to vomit against the wall.

The midday sun continued to beat down on him, but Clint had never felt more cold. Rational thought tried to take over -- he would have to radio in and say the Black Widow had escaped, and that he had been following a civilian. A child. His intel had been wrong.

But he couldn’t. Fingers shaking, Clint took his hand off the trigger.

The girl managed to stay on her feet, though she leaned heavily against the wall. She stared down at the body in horror. People were heading towards the scene, and Clint begged her to leave. Scrambling she bent out of sight, tugging at the body before finally running away.

Clint sat back on his heels, forcing himself to breathe. The kid had stolen his wallet.

Autopilot took over, his hands quickly disassembling his weapon while his mind was still frozen. God, he needed Laura. He needed to hear her voice. The phone was in his hands before he realized how stupid that was. It was far too dangerous. He was still in a mission.

His hand hesitated by his ear. He had to inform SHIELD. He had to move onto the next lead. He couldn’t ignore all of his training simply because of a street kid.

Swearing, Clint shouldered his gear and took off over the rooftops. He passed by the alleyway, but didn’t bother to look down. Someone would find the body soon enough.

The girl was was easy to track. He spotted her outer shirt stuffed in a garbage heap and that made him feel a little better. At least she had known to do that.

When he finally spotted her, she was ducking through a crowded alley. No one even glanced at her -- as was the plight of the street kid. But now it was in her favor. Blood had a strong smell, and it had covered her clothing, more than just the shirt she had abandoned.

The buildings merged closer, haphazard in construction and some close to collapsing. But the circus had trained him well when it came to walking on uncertain terrain, and he never faltered. The girl stopped for a moment, catching her breath, face flushed with adrenaline. He slowed too, realizing how silly it was to track her like an actual target. Reaching into his bag, he pulled on a beanie and took up the easy gait of someone who knew the area.

The second time she stopped, she finally opened the wallet in her hands. Clint watched her pull out the cash, not even bothering to count it. Then, with a quick glance around, she threw the wallet into a pile of trash.

The girl wound her way through the dirty alleyways, confident of her route, and Clint easily kept her in sight. When she slowed Clint crouched low on the opposite rooftop, watching her duck inside behind a crooked door. Home it seemed was a half collapsed building.

A tiny window with broken glass gave him a limited view inside. With a sigh he took off his bag and pulled out the SHIELD binoculars.

Clint found her on the second floor, beside two small figures. The girl had bent down, clearly speaking to the others, and his gut clenched again. Children.

After a few minutes, the girl stood and he followed her path through the house. Clint knew he should leave, but damn it, his body would not move. His childhood had not been this bad, but Clint knew a bit about living rough. But it was completely different viewing this as a parent. He lowered the binoculars, feeling sick. Were they her siblings? Her children?

Lifting up the binoculars again, Clint stood, realizing she was at the further end of the house. Leaping across to another rooftop, he watched her shadow pass by a covered window. From what he could make out she was packing a bag. Hopefully she had also changed out of the bloody clothes. At least she was smart enough to know that she couldn’t stay.

Putting away the binoculars, Clint stared down at the street. He would see her leave, and then he could go.

But the woman who climbed out of the back window was different. She had changed into a saree of dark magenta, and the poise in her step was unmistakable. Falling to his stomach, Clint hid as best he could. But inside he was laughing.

The Widow. It was her.

* * *

 

Glancing to see if she was out of site, Clint immediately doubled back. Relieved and impressed, he raced back to where she had dumped the wallet. It was risky, but the intel was too good to pass up. Using a rickety fire escape, he made his way to the street. The air was thick and heavy, but he was too distracted to let it bother him.

The way she had struggled, the way she had held the knife -- Christ, she had even vomited.

But had it been for his benefit? Had he been spotted? Why else would she have gone to such an extreme? Spotting the trash bin, Clint casually surveyed the area. This would be a good place to strike.

Casually he bent down and palmed a blade from the compartment in his pants. Upright, he waited, counting the seconds. Nothing. Trusting his gut, Clint hurried to the trash bin. There, fallen between a broken toy and an old rug, Clint fished out the wallet. As soon as it was in his fist he turned and headed in the opposite direction.  

Tapping his earpiece, Clint waited for Coulson’s voice.

“Report?”

“Target BVR. Lucky drop.”

“Copy that, Agent. Return to base. Out.”

“Out.”

He circled the safe house twice before he was confident that she had not followed. But only until the electronic locks had clicked back into place did he truly relax.

Dropping his gear, Clint went straight for the table, dropping the wallet. It was stained with blood, and most likely had her prints, but SHIELD didn’t need those. They needed information.

Stripping off his disguise, a tan cotton kurta and matching pyjama pants, Clint kicked off his boxers as well, standing nude in the air conditioning. A hot, sunny climate was torture for someone who sat on a rooftop all day. God, he needed a nice cold shower.

But first.

Clint stared at the wallet, ignoring his scorched skin. Methodically he stripped off the knives on both legs and the one on his left forearm. Nothing made sense. Why had she gone after that man? She had chosen him specifically. But why? And why go through such an act when she could have easily finished him off?

Wandering to the small kitchen Clint returned with a bottle of water, and collapsed into a chair. His laptop was right there, but this was something he should call in. Maybe Coulson could make sense of it.

Flipping open the wallet, he was unsurprised to find a fake I.D. It was professionally done, but fake, nonetheless. A credit card and a worn out business card for a hotel was all that remained. She had just taken the money.

“Coulson,” Clint tapped his earpiece.

“Barton,” his handler replied.

Clint tugged the ID out of the wallet, “Yeah, I got a name for you. An alias, no doubt. Jack M. Prontile. Pron-tee-lee, maybe?”

A moment of silence followed, then; “did she take him out?” Coulson was interested.

Clint nodded, ‘yeah, but... who is he?”

“Alias of a Maksim Sokolov. Age 36. A KGB operative from ‘88...and then SVR. Same as the Widow. Currently is listed as low level recruitment for something known as 2R.”

Huh.

“Recruitment? How good is this intel?”

Coulson hummed, “he’s considered a low level threat, so the records are slim. Last updated in ‘94. Why?”

Clint tapped the ID on the table, “any chance he moved up? I mean, why would she go after him?”

Clint didn’t believe in coincidence. She had been waiting for Maksim to arrive. But what had brought him here in the first place?

“We know they have been tracking the Widow too. Maybe he was sent as a scout. Or maybe they are pulling everyone in order to take her down. She has been thinning their ranks recently.”

Clint snorted, “not him.”

No, Maksim was too sloppy and volatile to be an agent. He had played right into the Widow’s trap.

“I think he was just a grunt.”

Tapping sounded in his earpiece, “I agree. Not much of an education, hasn’t been active in the field since ‘91...”

Clint leaned back, holding the ID to the light. There was a small computer chip inside the plastic, behind the photo.

“I don’t think he knew who he was fighting. She was in disguise the whole time.”

Coulson paused in his typing, “interesting. You’re sure he didn’t recognize her?”

“Not a chance.”

Clint studied the fake I.D. Nothing added up.

“So, was he the original target or just unlucky?”

Closing his eyes, Clint replayed the scene in his head. Luck did not exist in their world.

“No, she was waiting for him. There was no hesitation. She was after him, specifically.” Clint trailed off, staring out the far window, “she never broke cover. God, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“This is why we told you not to engage unless you have the absolute advantage. Her skills are unparalleled.”

Clint shook his head. She had completely become the character in both manner and execution. A street kid fighting for her life -- the image would not leave his head.

“No, I don’t mean her combat style. I mean she tricked him. He died thinking a street kid had been after his wallet. God, she almost fooled me.”

Coulson was quiet for a moment, “do you want backup?”

Clint snorted, backup would not help in this situation. No this was a one man job. And Clint preferred to work alone.

Two years she had been on the run. But this killing spree had only recently begun. Why?

Something still didn’t add up.

“Anything else on this guy?”

“Let me...no, not really. Several accounts of domestic abuse, unfortunately. But that is par for the course with these men.”

Clint’s jaw tightened. Had she known that? Then why put herself at risk with that disguise? Why go to that extreme?

“Anything else, agent? I take it this is from the drop?”

Clint nodded.

“Yeah, his wallet. Fake ID has some sort of chip in it. A key card maybe? Otherwise just basic litter.”

More tapping echoed through his earpiece.

“Hmmm, patch it through. I will have the techies go at it. Might be something.”

“Can I go shower now?”

He could feel Coulson roll his eyes, “yes, agent. Out”

“Out.”

Tapping the card, Clint wondered if they could get anything out of the chip. It was odd that it was hidden behind the ID, but not unusual. He had a feeling it was a key card, which implied there was a base nearby. That could be useful. Maybe it would be her next hit.

Pushing up from the chair, Clint rubbed at his nose. Tomorrow he had to remember to put on sunscreen. Gathering his abandoned gear, he headed to the bedroom, and more importantly the shower. He was not made for the heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BVR - Beyond Visual Range (real term)  
> Lucky Drop - Item accidentally left behind by a target (my invention)  
> Pocket litter/Litter - various items that make the fake identity more realistic - receipts, coins, lipstick... (real term)


	2. Recruitment

The next morning Clint was in a completely different disguise: Jack M. Prontile. Temporary hair dye gave him dark locks, and was wearing a western suit. Being a white man in this part of the world was working in his favor. 

SHIELD intel had worked over the computer chip as he slept. The chip was set up for some sort of transaction. But more importantly the intel lead to an orphanage outside of the city. What kind of orphanage had fancy key cards?  

It was a shoddy cover for a base, but it would have to do. 

Chugging down some coffee, Clint followed it with an energy bar. It tasted awful, but he had no patience for breakfast. Then, at 8 am, Jack M. Prontile left the safe house and caught a cab.

It was twenty minutes out of the city, no doubt because of traffic. But that was quickly forgotten because Clint stepped out of the cab in front of a real orphanage. 

It was rundown and filthy, but still active. Malnourished and dirty children stared at him with big eyes. They wandered around the yard, not even playing. Where the fuck was he? 

Maybe it was an underground base. But there were no signs of one. Only a sad orphanage in the middle of nowhere.

A faded sign on the front door caught his eye, and he paused. It was run by an international charity-run. Or at least, it has been. He didn’t recognize the charity -- but either it no longer existed, or it was a front. Clint made note of the name. 

The door burst open and a tiny woman with a dirty t-shirt bowed to him, chatting animatedly. He shook his head, so she simply gestured to come inside. 

It was awful. 

There was not enough space, not enough beds, certainly not enough food -- and way too many kids. A few had mismatched shoes, but most were lucky to wear one item of clothing. It was just her and another young woman in charge, both as malnourished as the children. But she lead him through the whole place, trying to convince the Suit to give money.

Ten minutes in and Clint was close to cracking. God, he couldn’t keep this up. What was going on? Why had Maksim been heading to this place? This was not a place that had electronic key cards. And from what he had observed, barely had electricity. 

It made no sense. A hideout or a base, no matter how well hidden, would still leave some clues. But nothing stood out to him.

Twenty minutes and Clint was positive there was some sort of mistake. There was nothing here. It was an honest to god, shit-hole of an orphanage. Why the fuck was he here?

In an upstairs room, the woman disappeared and returned with a device that definitely did not belong. She held it out to him, still chatting away anxiously. A blinking red light gave him a clue. Taking out his wallet, he passed the ID over the device. The light blinked green and the woman grinned -- she damn near cried with happiness. 

Disappearing again, Clint steadied himself, hoping for no more surprises. This place was another dead end. 

A sniffle nearly made his knees buckle, and he turned to see the woman dragging a little girl towards him. She had been crying. The girl looked no more than eight, but underfed as she was, she could have been older. The woman was scolding her, gesturing to him adamantly. The girl pulled away, avoiding his gaze as if he were the devil. And then the truth hit him in the chest.

The key card. It was a transaction. 

He had just bought a girl. 

Recruitment, Coulson had said, Maksim was part of recruitment.

“No.”

He needed to get out of there, now. Clint shook his head, gesturing to the staircase, but the woman was relentless. Immediately she started yelling, pointing into another room where he could hear children playing. Her meaning was clear. If he didn’t want the girl, did he want someone else?

Waving his hand, Clint silenced her. Bending down, he smiled at the girl and pointed for her to return to the room. She bolted.

Reaching into his wallet, Clint took out all the of cash, wishing it was more. Handing it to the surprised woman, he nodded in confirmation.

Yes, keep it.

Then he ran out of there as fast as he could, jumping into the taxi without a word.

* * *

 

“What?”

Clint had expected this, so he waited patiently. Ok, so he was pacing. But he was going to remain calm.

“You want to... bring her in. Recruit the Black Widow.” Coulson sounded shocked, and not much ever shocked him.

“Yes.”

“What...what makes you think she will even go for it?”

Clint hesitated. Everything he had seen in the past twenty-four hours had torn him up inside. But he was sure he had found the connection. But he couldn’t tell Coulson that until he had proof. No, he had to stick to the facts. 

“I just know.”

So much for facts.

“Clint,” Coulson was hesitant, “all of our intel says she is unstable and dangerous. She has turned down multiple other recruitments.” Clint snorted, ‘turned down’ was an understatement, “you would be putting yourself in unnecessary danger for an answer that --”

“Look, I just know, okay. And we can give her something that no other agency has offered.”

He pictured Coulson banging his head into the keyboard. Clint felt the same way. But with his fists against Maksim’s face. 

“She would be an incredibly powerful asset. But that is also what makes her so deadly. For all we know she could be playing a long con. And why would the Widow, Russia’s prize assassin, defect to the United States?”

“Coulson, dammit, I have to try!” 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity, fuck.

There was another pause, “are you compromised, agent Barton?

Clint glared at the kitchen cabinet, “No.”

“And if I don't give you the ok?”

“Look, if I find her and she is past saving - if she’s that unstable, yes I will complete the job. But I think there is...I think there is a part of her that wants to be saved.”

“That goes against all of our intelligence. She is the best thing Russia has ever created. Why would she--”

“Goddammit, Coulson, they take children!”

Clint released the refrigerator handle, unsurprised to see the indent of his fingers. Dropping his head against the stainless steel door, he waited.

“Say again, agent?”

Until this moment, SHIELD did not have a full idea of how the program operated. It was not a gang system like many asian organizations, and it was not military based like SHIELD or MI6. The KGB had always claimed that the Black Widow program was their idea. But since when had they ever told the truth? Besides, one did not just volunteer for the KGB. You were chosen. So how did they find women for the program?

“Recruitment.” Clint breathed through his nose, “You said Maksim’s title was recruitment. Well, that’s a big fucking stretch. They have been stealing orphans, Coulson. Little girls. That’s who they train...that’s who they turn into killers.”

But it made sense. It was truly sickening, but damn, if it wasn’t foolproof. How else do you make the perfect killer? You raised one. 

“What evidence do you have?”

If he had been holding a phone, Clint would have thrown it out the window. The rational part of his mind knew Coulson was asking the right questions, but goddammit he didn’t care.

“The key card, Coulson. I was dragged around a shit hole of an orphanage that I doubt had running water, and then the woman appears with a state of the art card reader. And then she offered me a little girl. Practically dragged her to me.”

Clint could feel the wheels turning in Coulson’s mind, “are you sure it wasn’t just standard sex trafficking?”

Clint shook his head, “doesn’t fit. Not in that dump. Transactions of this caliber happen behind velvet doors with bodyguards. And think of the Widow. Why would she go after this specific ring? 

I think -- and no I do not have any actual proof -- I think the Black Widow program is starting up again and Romanoff found out. That’s why she went AWOL, this must have happened to her.”

His ear piece was silent. Clint counted the seconds. 

“I need to report this to Fury. Full debrief will have to wait,” Clint let out the breath he was holding. “But this is a No Go situation. Do not engage with the target until you hear otherwise. Recon only.”

Clint stared at the table where the he had thrown the keycard. He didn’t any more proof. This was what had driven Natasha Romanoff to go rogue. If he could just --

“Agent, do you copy.”

He had no choice. 

Fuck. “Copy.”

* * *

 

It had kept him up most of the night. Trying to figure out how to catch this woman, how to make her listen. She was a wounded animal lashing out, and Clint knew he had to approach her delicately. Something had set Natasha Romanoff on this path and it would also be her achilles heel.

Until this point all of her kills had been professional. Some were obvious, leaving enough evidence of her presence that the organization in question would get the message. Others, however, others were top-priority takedowns that to anyone else would look accidental -- poison, shock, car accidents. Previous intel had classified these as standard revenge killings of a rogue agent. But now? In his opinion, her entire case file needed to be reanalyzed.

The Black Widow program created soldiers that were practically carbon copies. Romanoff looked no more than twenty years old, but some of her specs matched Widows from years before. It was an impressive operation, and only one of many reasons why they were so deadly. But, One thing separated her from all the past Widows. She was the first known Widow to break away -- and more importantly, she had succeeded. 

“Coulson!”

A moment later his ear piece picked up static.

“Agent Barton?”

Oh good, it was still Coulson. Time differences were not his forte.

“What have you found out about this hit? Are there any connections to her previous kills?”

She had attacked in person but in disguise. Why? He couldn’t get it out of his head. There had to be a connection.

Coulson sighed, “agent, this couldn’t have waited for a more reasonable hour?”

“No, it really can’t. I need you to look again for any connections between the orphanage and her previous hits.”

“The orphanage?”

“Yeah,” Clint tossed a pen, watching it tap the ceiling and fall back into his left hand. He doubted the report he made was legible but there were more important things to do than paperwork. 

Coulson’s typing rang loudly in his ear, “alright, agent. But what are you looking for?”

He sighed, “not sure yet. But I think you should take her out of the equation. Just connect the hits with any similar events.... any other missing children, maybe?”

“Missing children in a third-world country isn’t going to narrow anything down, I’m afraid.”

Clint grit his teeth, “then connect it to other orphanages. Can’t you track the keycard info? Human trafficking is not a new thing here. There have to be similar...” he cringed, “similar transactions.”

“Yes, we had in fact thought of that, agent.” Coulson replied in that monotone way that was incredibly difficult to read, “We have been running the numbers.”

“And?”

“Sending the information now.”

Clint sat up and scrambled for his laptop. The loading screen glared back at him: two minutes. Impatient, he turned his attention back to his handler.

“What has Fury said?”

Coulson didn’t answer right away, and that was a dead giveaway.

“Agent, there is no evidence to suggest the Black Widow program stole children. We know Romanoff was a member of the KGB before joining. And besides, the program ended years ago. And even if you are correct, the intel fits with Romanoff’s age.” Clint bit back his retort, glaring at the loading screen. That did not sound like Fury. That sounded like the council.

“So what did  _ Fury _ say?”

Coulson was back to his official monotone voice,“Director Fury wants you to continue what you are doing.”

He smirked. Fury was as much a politician as he was a spy. 

Pages and pages of charts and numbers appeared on the screen, cross checking and analyzing everything they knew. As expected, the numbers confirmed the high levels of human trafficking in this area, especially of children. Clint ignored the anger it caused, pushing it back down so he could focus.

“Hmmm, this orphanage you found, it is sending up some odd signals,” Coulson paused, “It is definitely a front for a trafficking ring. And there have been similar transactions in the past few years.”

Bingo. 

“Who to?”

Typing filled his earpiece, “still working on it. Whoever they are, their tracks are very well hidden.”

Clint wasn’t surprised. But he was already positive that the buyers would be russian. But at this point it didn’t matter if it was a child sex trafficking ring or the rebooting of the Black Widow program. Natasha Romanoff was doing all she could to stop it, and that was his way in.

“Agent?”

“Right, sorry,” Clint rubbed his eyes, “I still think the orphanage is important. She made sure this Maksim guy wasn’t getting there. But more than that, it was personal. Her attack...” that memory was never going to leave his head, “that was personal.”

“It is not uncommon for rogue agents to become vigilantes. A sort of atonement for their past deeds. But it doesn’t last.”

Nodding absently, Clint browsed the intel on the screen. Something about Natasha Romanoff was different, regardless of what command thought. 

“You still want to bring her in.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, I do.” 

Clint flung the pen across the room, sticking into the corkboard about the desk. Whoever set up this safe house had seen too many episodes of CSI. No decent agent would ever tack up their intel to the wall. Far too risky.

“Alright, good luck, agent.” Coulson sounded tired.  

“Out” he replied.

A new screen page popped up and Clint had to blink a few times before he realized what he was reading. It was a list of similar key card transactions that coincided with all of Romanoff’s previous hits. Two more orphanages in India remained.

He finally had his answer.


	3. Flesh Wound

It wasn’t raining. It never rained here. But the romantic in him couldn’t help but think how much more fitting it would be if it had been. Hell, even a little bit of cloud cover would have been nice. Because Clint was once again set up on a roof top waiting for Natasha Romanoff to arrive. And it was still fucking summer in fucking India.

He had taken a gamble and chosen the closer orphanage to await her arrival. The numbers said that she would arrive sometime in the next 48 hours, but Clint took that with a grain of salt. Her last kill was evidence enough that she was easily flexible with how and when she took down a target.

He glanced at his watch, knowing Coulson wasn’t going to be happy with him. Last night he had turned off his earpiece and disabled the three trackers on his person. He could not risk being interrupted or god help him, chastised for not following protocol. His last transmission had been set on a delay, and hopefully it would buy him some time.

Clint shifted, glad at least for the temporary shade of an abandoned shed. He had foregone a disguise, and the black SHIELD uniform was turning into an oven. But he wanted Romanoff to know who he was, which was why he had also traded in the rifle for his bow.

With a sigh, he slid off his mission capable hearing aid and wiped it on his pants. There was sweat everywhere. Clint was a farm boy at heart, but this was getting ridiculous.

The shadows had grown long and still there was no sign of another recruiter, or anyone who looked out of place. Clint was starting to fear that he had in fact chosen the wrong orphanage. Then a figure from the north appeared, a stern looking man in a western suit. God, he looked like the stereotypical bad guy in an action film. The man wasn’t even trying to blend in.

But where was the Widow?

The shot took him by surprise, a low buzz that only his SHIELD hearing aid could have picked up.

Sniper. North. 200 yards.

The recruiter was unharmed and completely unaware, which meant it wasn’t Romanoff. And that meant someone else was shooting. But at who?

Immediately Clint was up and running.

Bolting over the rooftops, Clint looked for the shooter. The daylight was fading, but that would only draw the sniper out. Leaping across a rooftop, he rolled beneath a clothesline and froze. Directly below him came a gunshot and shattered glass. Pulling free an arrow, Clint crept to the edge, leaning against a low chimney.

Two stories below was the Widow, her gun pointed towards the building he sat atop. She fired again, immediately ducking into a role behind an abandoned car.

“Natasha Romanoff, stand down.”

The voice was male, with an accent that Clint couldn’t place. Eyes on her hiding spot, he watched her fire off two quick rounds. Glass shattered again, and he heard the sound of a body moving quickly.

The man burst out of his own hiding spot, shooting quickly before ducking behind a large dumpster. Clint swore. It was Jenkens from MI6 -- he recognized the agent’s blonde hair. Crouching low, Jenkins shot underneath the car but Natasha was already leaping over it, firing right back. But something was wrong.

She had been shot in the arm.

Judging by her movements it was only a flesh wound and would not slow her down. But it meant she was off her game. Jenkins was a talented agent, but that was definitely a lucky shot -- no one could compete with the Widow.

Sparks flew off the dumpster with each shot, cornering the MI6 agent as she strove forward. But Jenkins was ready, and easily twisted himself over the dumpster throwing his whole body on top of her. It was a good move -- with her injured arm she wasn’t able to throw him off.

The gun fell from her hand as both agents fell heavily to the ground. He heard the slightest groan of pain, but immediately she was up and rolling, kicking at Jenkin’s head with deadly precision. The two figures twisted around each other in the abandoned street, each trying to gain the upper hand. Jenkins was focusing on her arm, getting in as many hits as he could to the injury. But the Widow easily wrapped her legs around his waist, elbows jammed at his eye sockets and rolled free. Clint’s hearing aids picked up the crunch of an eye socket, and possibly Jenkin’s nose as he swore in pain, trying to crawl back to his feet. But the Widow was there first, kicking his head so that it snapped back with an audible pop.

Night was falling quickly, but Clint kept his arrow trained on the fight. The recruiter would be long gone by now with a child, which meant the Widow would track them next. But Clint didn’t have that kind of time. If the Widow didn’t end this soon, he would.

The flash of a blade was followed immediately by a grunt of pain, but he couldn’t tell who had made it. The two separated, each leaping to their feet, the blade spinning out of Jenkin’s hands. The Widow rolled to her feet, clutching her side.

“Widow, Stand down.”

She sneered as they circled warily,

“Nyet.”

With a powerful kick, Jenkins leapt on her, knocking them back towards the dumpster. Clint tightened the slack of his bowstring, watching the fall in slow motion. Jenkins had managed to twist his leg around her ankle, rolling into the Widow’s body so that she lost her balance. Her head hit the ground with a terrible smack, and that momentary delay gave Jenkins the upper hand. Arms tight around her throat, Jenkins leaned heavily onto her bleeding side. Panting, he struggled to keep her from getting free.

“Apologies, Widow, but there is a White Flag agreement on you. Britain sends ---.”

Jenkins screamed as she gouged his eyes. Her legs twisted up and around his waist as she rolled them but Jenkins caught her next hit, twisting her injured arm at the wrist. Romanoff growled, but released her hold, yanking her arm away. Jenkins threw himself at the Widow’s legs, knocking her down against the pavement. Clint cringed as her face scraped against the ground. Coughing Jenkins pulled another knife from his boot. But it wasn’t just another blade -- it was a heavy, serrated hunting knife.

Jumping to her feet, Romanoff kicked his solar plexus, narrowly avoiding his rebuttal. She was shaking, and Clint could smell the blood seeping from her wounds, but the Widow was not going down. In a move almost too quick to see, she broke his wrist while throwing him to the side. This was going to be a very ugly fight to the death.

Swiping low, he forced the Widow backwards, the uneven street working in his favor. She stumbled as she ducked out of reach, backing her into the dumpster. Jenkins was a big man, and even with a broken wrist he was incredibly strong. Could she really take him on?

Rushing forward with a shout, the MI6 agent plunged the knife down, trapping her tightly against the dumpster. But the Widow’s growl and the clash of steel against steel gave Clint hope.

Then, with a feral cry, Jenkins was thrown back into the street. Romanoff limped forward, taking every hit Jenkins threw, refusing to go down. Inch by inch she forced him back.

Hitting his broken wrist, Romanoff spun into Jenkin’s reach, flipping his knife into her own hands. Eyes glinting in the darkness, she swiping at his throat.

But Jenkins twisted, avoiding the blade, and threw the Widow off. He fell hard, landing on his broken wrist, the crunch of bone audible from where Clint hid. The man tried valiantly to climb to his feet, but it was too late. With perfect form the Black Widow flung the knife into his chest.

For a long moment neither agent moved. Even in the dark Clint could see that it had slid perfectly between the third and fourth rib. Romanoff, hand held tight against her side, watched him fall.

Gasping, Jenkins fell to his knees, eyes wide. He wavered, his good hand falling to the pavement. Teeth bared, Romanoff stalked forward.

Clint fired the same moment Jenkin’s hand grasped the Widow’s forgotten gun. Flung forward, an arrow pierced through his neck, the MI6 agent collapsed at her feet.

Romanoff did not move, although her eyes had already zeroed in on his position. He could not make out her expression, but there was a tightness in her body language that said she was gathering the last bit of her strength.

Counting to three, Clint stepped out of the shadows.

“You know who I am?”

She nodded once, eyes flicking down to the body at her feet.

“You work for the American’s. SHIELD.”

Her accent was flawless.

“Can I come down?”

He felt her hesitation; this was not standard procedure -- even for a rogue agent. But Clint rarely did what he was supposed to do.

At her nod, Clint swung off the roof, landing ten feet in front of her. Unclipping the rope, he slowly slid the bow onto his back, keeping his hands open and visible. He walked towards her slowly, pausing only when her eyes flickered in alarm. The night was clear, and the stars in the sky illuminated everything. And what he saw only confirmed his suspicions. The Widow was no more than a battered young woman.

“You are here to kill me.”

There was an edge to her voice, even as she clutched her wounded side.

“I was,” he nodded, “but now I am here for another reason.”

She cocked her head, eyes narrowed.

“I want to help you stop the recruiters.”

This was a woman trained not to reveal her emotions, but right then Natasha Romanoff looked as if the breath had been knocked from her lungs. Romanoff jerked back, practically baring her teeth, “what are you talking about?”

Clint was unphased, “you’re trying to save them. The orphans. You don’t want them to end up like you.” He cocked his head to the side, studying her, “And I think you are worth saving. So I’m gonna help you.”

The Black Widow stared at him.

“See, I think you don’t want to be a killer,” he continued, “And if I’m right, then I am also here to offer you a job. ‘Cause that’s what SHIELD does. We protect people.”

Without waiting for a response, he bent down over Jenkin’s body. It was the ultimate sign of his faith in her, because he had just broken the first rule any spy or assassin learned.

Never take your eye off your opponent.

Carefully he pulled the body onto its side so he could see the arrow tip. Jenkins had died instantly, which would hopefully be enough to keep MI6 from retaliating in any way. But that would be Fury’s problem. With a well-practiced twist, he unscrewed the titanium arrowhead and then, with a quick jerk, pulled the arrow free. Sliding the arrow back into his quiver, he tucked the arrowhead into a zippered compartment.

Lifting Jenkins arm he inspected the man’s body armour. Nothing. Rolling the man onto his back, Clint took up his other arm, inspecting the man’s broken wrist. Gotcha.

Looking back up he was unsurprised to see Romanoff staring at him as if he were insane. There was blood on the side of her face, and strands of her dark hair were stuck in it. He could almost feel her heart racing as she debated what to do. But he also saw the exhausted surrender of someone who was ready for it all to end.

Arranging Jenkin’s body as kindly as possible, he flicked open the man’s watch and pressed the faint blue button.

“I’ve sent out his beacon. So you can come with me or you can wait for more MI6 agents to arrive.”

It wasn’t much of a choice, but it was the truth. And she knew it.

“And if I go with you?”

He nodded, “You join SHIELD. But first we go back to my safe house and get you patched up. And then we will go save that little girl.”

Standing, he wiped his hands on his pants, and smiled gently at the figure before him.

“Da,” she whispered, “I surrender.”

* * *

 

Seeing the Widow under the florescent lights of the safe house kitchen was a bizarre experience. It was very similar to the Wizard of Oz -- the mysterious Black Widow had been exposed as nothing more than a tiny young woman, malnourished and battered.

Motioning for her to sit at the kitchen table, Clint carefully undid his gear, taking off all of his weapons and storing them properly. She didn’t need weapons to kill him, but Clint wanted her to understand how serious he was. He was putting his trust in her, and that meant making himself equally as vulnerable.

Pulling out a chair, Clint sat in front of her, pulling the emergency kit towards them.

“Alright,” he nodded, “let's patch you up. Then you can shower and I will make up some food.”

She stared at him cautiously, back stiff as she kept her hand pressed to her side.

“Can I cut the sleeve off your shirt?”

Her eyes were green, Clint noticed, as they flicked between him and her injured side. The long black sleeve was torn and stiff with blood. Nodding stiffly, she placed her left arm on the table between them and waited.

Clint pulled out the basics for a bullet wound, including alcohol and bandages. He looked up at the sound of ripping fabric.

“That works too.” He grinned, as she dropped the sleeve to the floor, “the name’s Clint, by the way. Clint Barton. Codename Hawkeye.”

She was silent, watching him prepare. But Clint hadn’t expected a response.

Wiping a disinfectant cloth on his hands, he carefully inspected her arm. It had clotted and re-bled several times, but the shirt had kept the wound somewhat clean. She had no reaction to the sting of alcohol as he cleaned the entry and exit wound. Only the stiffness of her muscles conveyed her nervousness. It was through and through and would heal easily.

“So, I gotta ask. The other day at the train station when you took down the recruiter, ” Clint paused, stretching the bandage around her bicep, “why go to that extreme? I mean, it was unbelievable. I completely fell for it. But why?”

Releasing her arm, he dipped another cotton ball in alcohol, eyeing the wound on her cheek. Stiffly she pulled free the strands of hair, and turned her head slightly, allowing him to clean it too.

“I knew I was being watched, only I did not know by who,” her eyes flickered to his, “but how did you know? I made sure it was believable.”

Clint hummed, “yes, you did. God, the kitchen knife -- and how you hit his artery? It was so natural. Fuck, it was terrifying.”

“But?”

Unwrapping another antibiotic wipe, he handed it over and she carefully ran it over the various cuts on her hands.

“Honestly? You did too good a job. I had to make sure you were gonna be alright. I couldn’t watch that happen and then just walk away.”

Her surprise was genuine. Agent’s saw a lot of bad things, and many were common occurrences like a pickpocket being beaten in the street. But they were not supposed to intervene. They had to stay on task, another thing Clint wasn’t too good at.

“How about your side?”

With far less hesitation, Romanoff lifted her shirt off, pulling it carefully over her injured arm. Her sports bra was stained with sweat, but she still had an impressive figure. Clint didn’t react, knowing it was her own way of testing him. Instead he prepared a gauze strip, soaking it in alcohol. The cut was just under her bra strap and blood covered her whole left side.

Gently as possible, he wiped it away, leaving a clear patch for the bandage. The cut had clotted, but he cleaned it thoroughly until fresh blood appeared. It was jagged but no more than an inch long. Not as bad as he feared.

“He struck your ribcage,” she nodded slowly, unsurprised, “stitches would probably be a good idea. I can do it now if you want.”

Clint looked back in the kit, digging around for butterfly bandages. Considering where the wound was, it would lessen the chance of it reopening when she moved.

“I heal fast.”

Clint raised an eyebrow, carefully unwrapping a bandage.

“I can staple it too, if you’re unsure of my sewing skills.”

She blinked at him, unsure how to react to his teasing. Shrugging, he taped it closed.

Standing, Clint gathered the wrappers and bandages, stepping into the small kitchen and dumping them into the disintegrator. From the shelf he took down a glass, and slowly filled it from the tap.

“Why are you doing this?” she swallowed, voice hoarse, “what do you want?”

She sounded broken. He knew that feeling all too well. Taking a long drink, Clint crossed back over to the table, and slid the glass over.

Her hand was small, knuckles raw, but she took the glass gratefully.

Clint held her gaze, “I want to help you.”

Turning, Romanoff set the glass on the table, staring into it.

“SHIELD wants to help me?”

He sighed, sitting back down, “I’m not gonna pretend like I know what you went through, but I can say that SHIELD helped me when I was lost. And I think that’s what you are doing now, trying to figure out who you are.”

She looked away, staring intensely at the glass of water. Clint took that as a good sign. A moment later, she tugged the kit towards her. Without looking she plucked the medical stapler out, dropping it in front of him.

Hiding a grin, Clint got off his chair and knelt in front of her. Normally the patient would lay down, but this seemed to be the extent of her trust. Bending close, he lined the stapler with the wound, his head brushing her underarm.

“Ready?”

Romanoff hummed in reply, and he gently placed his free hand on her bare skin.

“One.”

She cringed as he snapped the lever, but he knew better than to ask if she was alright. Gently he brushed his hand up her ribcage, repositioning the stapler. His index finger brushed her sports bra as he shifted. Up close like this he noted how pale her skin really was, and more surprisingly, how little scars she had. Anyone in this line of business was littered in scars of all shapes and sizes. But not her.

“Two.”

She flinched again but made no sound as the second staple bit into her skin.

Leaning back, Clint set the stapler on the ground, carefully inspecting the area. It was bleeding again, but that was to be expected. Without looking Clint found the gauze and bandage he had left on the table. Dabbing at the fresh blood, he finally pulled his left hand from her skin, ripping open the bandage with his teeth. Gently he positioned the patch over the entire area, sealing it with his finger.

“So, you can get cleaned up,” he explained, leaning back on his heels.

Green eyes stared down at him.

Clint knew that look. She was vulnerable and lonely and had completely exposed herself to him. He knew agents took advantage of it -- the loneliness and adrenaline of missions. But he had never been tempted. Partly because he preferred working alone, and also because he had Laura. He also knew it was a test. The Widow _was_ vulnerable. And a lifetime of training was not going to disappear in one night.

Picking up the stapler and wrappers he stood and repacked the kit.

“I will fix up some food and you can shower. There are clothes in the cabinets.”

He turned away, heading to the refrigerator. He was pretty sure there was still some fresh food -- he had bought some the other day. The cabinets were stocked with basic foodstuffs, and god forbid, MRE’s, but he would never be that desperate. Tugging open the tupperware, he took a contented sniff. India did have amazing cuisine.

The scrape of a chair was the only sign that she heard him. Spinning around, Clint found himself alone. His hearing-aid picked up the sound of the shower. Dropping the tupperware onto the table, he fell back into his chair.

Granted there was still a 30% chance that she would bolt, or worse, kill him. But something in his gut told Clint that this was going to work out. Natasha Romanoff wanted to be saved.

Pulling over his laptop, Clint quickly typed in his access code. He sent off a quick message, praying Fury would listen.

_5 by 5. Tell F not to proceed. Will bring in package alive FS. DNE. Out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I have no clue how medical stuff works. But, advanced healing means I don't have too lol.
> 
> The fight scene was sooo difficult to write, hope it makes sence


	4. SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit short, but I'm quite happy with how it turned out

When Natasha first defected to SHIELD no one but Clint trusted her. But to be fair, she only trusted Clint. It was hard to turn off a lifetime of training. So people avoided her. But that suited Natasha just fine -- she had an image to maintain. Only Clint was allowed to see the broken, pathetic weakling she had become.

She agreed to the testing and psych exams, willingly gave up intel, allowed them to keep her on lockdown. She agreed to it all because it meant she got to be near him. It was pathetic how much she was dependent on the archer. But he made her feel safe. And that was something Natasha had never felt before. He was a drug and she craved more everyday. But she hadn’t realized how obvious it had become.

Three weeks in and some fool snickered as she followed Clint through SHIELD headquarters.

“The most dangerous woman in the world. Now look. Practically Barton’s shadow. Following him around like a lost puppy.”

Someone shushed him, but Natasha had already placed his name and face. She gave no sign that she had heard, passing by the man in question. Whispering always followed wherever she went. Occasionally she would catch their eye, flash a smile, and watch the blood leave their face when they realized she had heard them. Mostly it was harmless rumors: her skills set, assassinations, broken records.

But, as she mirrored her footsteps with Clint’s, Natasha felt a sting in her palm. Relaxing her fingers, she was surprised at the slight twinge of skin sticking to her nails. James M. Brendon, Logistics, 30 years, blonde, 5’11, 185 pounds -- had his words affected her that badly?

Holding up her hand, she stared at the bloody gouges with a detached interest. The stinging hardly registered. But Natasha wanted to laugh.

A shadow. A lost puppy.

It was so much worse than that. Because the truth was that she was fucking terrified. Clint had become her goddamn lifeline.

“Shit, Natasha, what did you do?”

And then Clint was inspecting her palm, shaking his head with that same calm demeanor he always had. He hadn’t heard the whispers, of course. Clint’s hearing varied day by day. And at HQ he didn’t bother with a hearing aid -- said it was too uncomfortable. She almost wondered what his reaction would have been.

“Alright, we will deal with it after the meeting.” He caught her eye, “leave it alone, ok?”

She gave the barest hint of a nod, dropping her hand. Natasha wasn’t the only one who was surprised every time he initiated contact. Eyes would widen slightly, backs stiffen -- he was touching the Black Widow, willingly, without any amount of fear. The man had a death wish. Even Natasha wasn’t sure what to think.

Every moment she spent with him was an internal battle against a lifetime of suspicion and distrust. But the man wasn’t even trying. She had never met someone who was so relaxed. Especially around her. And that only happened when she was playing with a mark, seducing him, gaining his trust. But Natasha wasn’t in a con and she definitely wasn’t in control. Every movement felt wrong, every decision was surely a mistake. She was flying blind.

Her SHIELD psychologist, Dr. Yoo Ri Brown, left handed, 43 years old, said that Natasha had to work on discovering herself. And that would start by trusting Clint. He would be her guide, all she had to do was follow.

And then Yoo Ri Brown had made one thing very clear, it had practically become a mantra. She, Natasha, was no longer a weapon.

“Go on in, Agent Barton. He is ready for you.”

Natasha did not pause, but followed Clint into Nick Fury’s office. His assistant did not make eye contact and Fury did not seem surprised either.

“Agent, Romanoff. Please, sit.”

She had memorized his office when she had first arrived, but Natasha was no where near ready to completely drop her guard. But she relaxed her posture.

Fury was a figure who radiated authority. But his energy was unlike any other commanding officer she had served under. It was far different from Clint’s energy too; there was strength and intelligence, but also an impenetrable wall. And she knew no one had ever gotten past that wall, because she had one herself.

Fury had been a spy himself once, an early member of SHIELD. Maybe that was what she recognized.

Sighing, Fury leaned back in his chair, his one eye focused on Barton.

“You are needed on assignment, agent. You leave tomorrow 0600.”

Clint’s surprise was genuine, and he sat up in his chair, “Sir, what are you --”

“Barton, I know you have been assisting Romanoff in her readjustment, but you have other duties.”

Clint almost looked insulted, “I know what I am doing, Sir. I have been away this long before.”

Fury glanced her way, “I know that, agent. But this cannot wait.”

The two men stared at each other. As if that would slow her down. Body language was an art in on itself, and even highly trained spies gave things away. Clint was annoyed, clearly torn between her and whatever this mission entailed. But Fury wasn’t going to budge.

Natasha interrupted whatever Clint was about to say, knowing it was fruitless.

“Alright.”

Schooling her features, she shrugged, glancing at Fury, “you’re testing me, Sir. To see if I can handle time away from Agent Barton.”

Fury had the decency to nod, “can you?”

“Of course,” she answered instantly.

“A test, Sir? Really?” Barton slouched back into his chair, still annoyed.

Fury’s expression did not change, “Test is a poor choice of words, I admit. But this is a chance for SHIELD and Miss Romanoff to get better acquainted.”

He pushed a new keycard towards her, but she did not move.

“You will be allowed access to all of SHIELD, but are technically still on lockdown -- so please, don’t leave the base. Meetings with Dr. Brown will continue as scheduled. Otherwise the time is yours.”

Damn him, she had played right into his trap. But he had a point.

Standing Natasha traded the key card for her old one, careful to keep her wounded palm out of sight. She nodded to Fury, “thank you, Sir.”

Clint didn’t move, and as they both expected Fury asked him to remain behind.

He flashed her the same easy grin, and she almost believed it. He didn’t bother telling her to wait or go on ahead. Despite what James M. Brendon had said, she was not his shadow. Or a god damn puppy.

Natasha chose to wait, regardless of what anyone thought.

Closing the door behind her, she headed for the small sitting area, ignoring Fury’s assistant. The walls of all Fury’s office were bulletproof glass, artfully (strategically) striped with opaque sections. But Natasha didn’t need to read their lips, even if the room was soundproof.

She hid a grin. Practically soundproof.

Her hearing, like her age and agility, was a little too perfect. She had been as truthful as possible to the medical teams, but there were some things even she could only guess at. Chunks of her past were gone, but she knew enough. If SHIELD figured out more from her blood work maybe some gaps could be filled in. If not, then she was better off not saying anything. Spies never revealed all their cards -- even to their own team.

And if she was no longer going to be a weapon she was also not going to be an experiment.

“--yeah, yeah, I get it, Sir.”

She could feel the vibration of Clint’s pacing as his silhouette passed by. It was slow and heavy, implying he had resigned to the situation.

“Reports from Dr. Brown, Dr. Wren and Dr. Augenstein all agree that Romanoff is adapting quickly, and all seem confident that she is not a threat. And it hasn’t even been a full month yet. You made the right call, bringing her in.”

“Is it too soon?” Fury’s question was genuine, and she watched Clint’s silhouette plop down into her chair.

“No, she will do fine. I just...I just--”

“Worry?” Fury supplied.

There was no response, and Natasha felt a flicker of something in her chest.

“No, I know she can do it.” Clint finally responded, concern evident in his voice, “I know she can--”

Standing, Natasha turned and headed back to her quarters. There was something wrong with her chest. She couldn’t breathe.

Only when her door locked did she allow herself to panic. It came out as a gasp and she folded onto the floor. Oh god, she couldn’t breathe.

Clint wasn’t worried that she would slip up or self destruct or whatever the rest of SHIELD thought. No, he was worried for her.

She didn’t want him to go. Not in the slightest. But knowing he believed in her, that Clint really and truly trusted her --

Was she really that much of a coward? When had she become so weak?

Dr. Brown had told her that needed someone wasn’t a weakness. But god damn, she felt weak now. Clenching her wounded palm, Natasha focused on the twinge of pain. She would do this. She _could_ do this. Clint trusted SHIELD and she trusted him -- that’s what was important.

Leaning against the door, Natasha was glad she had one more night to spend in his presence. Opening her palm, she stared at the gauges. Clint knew she could do it. He believed that she could be this new person, not the unfeeling assassin of her past.

It occurred to her then, that no one had ever said that before. Someone trusted her.

Her eyes stung bitterly, but she did not cry. But for the first time in a long time Natasha felt like she could.

* * *

 

“...you leave tomorrow at 0600.”

Clint couldn’t believe the bullshit he was hearing. There was no assignment. And he knew everything at home was fine. Laura would have sent him a coded message if anything came up, and Fury damn well wouldn’t have scheduled a meeting.

“I know what I am doing, Sir. I have been away this long before.”

Fury’s one good eye flickered to Natasha, “I know that, agent. But this cannot wait.”

Clint stiffened. What was his play? Why now?

“Alright.”

Natasha’s tone revealed nothing but confidence and Clint knew the argument was over. She would fight him even more than Fury.

The woman in question shrugged, meeting Fury’s eye, “you’re testing me, Sir. To see if I can handle time away from Agent Barton.”

Fury at least had the decency to nod, “can you?”

“Of course,” she answered instantly. Fury’s expression never changed, but Clint knew he was pleased.

“A test, Sir? Really?”

This was a test for both of them. And frankly, it pissed him off.

“Test is a poor choice of words, I admit. But this is a chance for SHIELD and Miss Romanoff to get better acquainted.”

Fury pushed a new keycard towards her but Nat did not move.

“You will be allowed access to all of SHIELD, but are technically still on lockdown -- so please, don’t leave the base. Meetings with Dr. Brown will continue as scheduled. Otherwise the time is yours.”

Natasha nodded, knowing full well that she had been played. But she was also not someone who backed down from a challenge.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Clint couldn’t help the pride in his chest as he watched her take the key card. He flashed her a grin as she passed, but Nat avoided his gaze. She still did not like to show emotion in public, but he could read her pretty well by now.

At the click of the door locking Clint turned back to Fury, accusingly.

“It’s not a test, agent. It’s a trial period,” Fury motioned towards the door, “She trusts you, now we need her to trust all of SHIELD.”

Restless Clint rose from his chair, “yeah, yeah, I get it, Sir.”

“Reports from Dr. Brown, Dr. Wren and Augenstein all agree that Romanoff is adapting quickly, and are confident that she is not a threat. And it hasn’t even been a full month yet. You made the right call, bringing her in.”

Clint felt that same glow of pride in his chest -- of course Natasha was doing well, she mastered everything she was given. And it was time SHIELD realized that she wasn’t a threat, but an asset. Someone who _wanted_ to be on their side. His eyes flickered to the opaque glass where he knew she was waited.

“Is it too soon?” Fury’s question was genuine.

Clint sighed and plopped into the chair she had vacated.

“No, she will do fine. I just...I just--”

“Worry?” Fury supplied.

Clint glared at him, to no avail.

“No, I know she can do it.” Looking down, he ran a hand through his hair, “I know she can. But damn, if it isn’t...if it isn’t like Jack.”

Fuck, he did miss his family. The last four months had been all about the Black Widow -- studying, hunting and now, rehabilitating. But how could he leave her at such a vulnerable time?

“You care for her.”

Clint tensed, “are you implying something, Sir?”

Fury raised his one good eyebrow.

“Barton, believe me when I say that you are the only one who could have pulled her out. And even if someone else had managed it, I still would have chosen you to oversee her transition. And it has nothing to do with skills you learned here.”

Clint blinked at him.

Fury leaned back in his chair, “Romanoff may be a master at her craft, but she is also completely naive. She had no idea how how the world functions, nor does she know her place in it. She does not need another handler. She needs someone who will stand by her side and lead her down the right path. For lack of a better term, she is essentially a child."

He scoffed, uncomfortable with what Fury was implying.

“I...I am not her parent. And she is not a child.”

But even as the words left his mouth, Clint realized they were false.

“Your instincts told you that Romanoff was not an assassin gone rogue, but a woman trying desperately to right a wrong. Those are instincts no other agent here has and it is because of your family.” Fury gave him a pointed look, “and that is something Romanoff has never had. It’s why, despite all of her training and brainwashing, she trusts you.”

Clint was at a complete loss. God, is that what he had been doing this whole time? Had he been parenting her? And Natasha had responded to it. She followed him around the base no differently than Jack, curious about the world but not brave enough to reach for it himself.

Well, fuck. This changed things.

Satisfied, Fury turned back to his computer.

“Go see your family Clint, you deserve it.”

* * *

The next day Natasha had watched from a corner as James M. Brendon sat down at his desk, nodding hello to the woman next to him. His computer screen flickered on and then he was out of his chair with a yelp, coffee spilling everywhere. Brendon swung around, searching for her in vain as his co-workers hurried to clean the mess. She grinned.

 

_You would be surprised what I can hear from the shadows._

 

The note on his keyboard was now soaked through with coffee, and she easily read the body language of his coworkers as they realized the situation. Most stiffened in surprise, only to shake their head and go back to work. They had warned him to be quiet.

Oh yes, she was going to do just fine while Clint was away.

 


End file.
